


Everything It Should Have Been

by I_Am_Titanium



Category: Marvel, Marvel (Comics), Marvel 616
Genre: Amnesia, Amnesia Natasha, Eventual Happy Ending, Eventual Smut, F/F, Hurt/Comfort, Mission Gone Wrong, Process of Memory Recovery, Sharing an apartment, There is nobody else because I just want to see them love and fuck and mostly love, au-ish
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-16
Updated: 2018-05-30
Packaged: 2019-02-15 13:45:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 7,386
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13032411
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/I_Am_Titanium/pseuds/I_Am_Titanium
Summary: A mission unexpectedly went wrong and left Natasha Romanov with little memory. A S.H.I.E.L.D. agent Bobbi Morse, who she didn't know, took her home and took good care of her. She accepted without knowing why.Or maybe, just maybe, she knew it all along.Second-person storytelling. Natasha POV.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Soooooooo, it's actually the first Blackingbird fanfic I've ever written, but I wrote it in my native language when it originally came out. Lately I decide to translate it in English because I find many sentences will be more fluent if I do.
> 
> The work was complete - in my native language. I'll post what I've translated so far, but the rest may have to wait for a while.
> 
> Chapters may be short in the beginning because I'm unfamiliar with a proper pace. It'll get better.

Everything shouldn’t have been this.

YOU shouldn’t have been this.

You did not know how it should have been, though, do you? They did not simply took Natasha Romanov’s most part of memory. They took you. Or more specifically, the meaning of being you.

You did not know how it should have been. You were not surprised when you saw those big black birds landing outside the warehouse. You watched indifferently as many people in grey rushed in and took down those who imprisoned and tortured you for months just for some pieces of intel. You boarded the quinjet seemingly not as one of them but more as a captive — though you cared little of it. You did not feel a tiny bit of relief seeing the familiar logo of eagle.

Because you found yourself, not too beyond your expectation, couldn’t feel anything.

Of course, it made no different from a Natasha Romanov before Tanzania, you comforted yourself. You didn’t believe it, but you were forcing yourself to believe it.

You sat on the settee somewhere near the director office, listening to the arguing inside half-heartedly. The angry voice belonged to a woman, and the low and annoyed one belonged to a man. You couldn’t make out what they were arguing about, but you didn’t really care anyway.

You didn’t care about anything.

The door opened. The black man in a long black leather windbreaker threw out an almost poisonous sentence “You’d better think it through, Morse” and walked away, leaving the blonde and you staring at each other.

She squatted down, holding your hands. You wanted to pulled out involuntarily, but she was much stronger than you first anticipate, so you didn’t fight too much.

Her hands is warm, thumbs circling on your cold back of the hands.

“I am Barbara Morse.” she gave you a bright smile. “And I’ll take you to my house.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's a start

She, Barbara Morse, could almost be described as your complete opposition.

Her apartment is a penthouse in the center of Manhattan, surrounding by French windows. The spacious rooms were all filled with bright sunlight, looking so lively even if it used to be just her living here. If you remembered, you would feel how different it was from that attic you used to own where all curtains were drawn even during daytime.

She was NOTHING like you.

Her hair was light straw-colored,as warm and prosperous as mows after fall’s harvest instead of flames with hatred like they were always threatening to burn the world to the ground. She preferred to plait her long hair into a serious ponytail without any twisting, which constantly swayed like a naughty bird whenever she was conducting experiments (she was a doctor of sorts?), making dinner or working out. Her skin tone was somewhere between wheat and bronze, with clear biceps unlike your dancer-very grace which all muscle hid beneath your fair and smooth skin on your arms. No, she was a cage fighter, with speed and explosive force like a panther in its prime.

She was always smiling. Even when you knocked over plates (don't know, probably body disharmony) and ruined the food she spent an hour or more preparing, or staring at a gun you somehow found, she always cleaned the mess you left, smiling.

She was a Californian. She told you during one daily meandering. She described the spring-like and all-year-long weather, warm but not hot sunshine, clear seawater, and slim palm trees. She described the life there. In north California, maybe San Fransisco, was a little lukewarm. In south like Los Angles it would be more dynamic, passionate, and welcoming strangers with open arms.

You would never be like her. You were a blackhole gulping any brightness. Hell, you were the coldness of Siberia itself… At least that was what you felt. You could not begin to understand why she would resign in S.H.I.E.L.D. to take care of you.

She made you Russian food of all kind. She seldom left the apartment unless for necessary grocery shopping. She would talk to you for hours. About her last mission in Prague. About a beautiful baby she saw in the Target today. About the starry sky in Sahara desert she and her lover (she refused to further elaborate) saw long time ago. You didn’t say a thing. You had said nothing since you moved in. You stared at her. You stared at her light blue eyes, as clear and deep as lake Baikal, but you never said a word.

You couldn’t figure out why she did all this. You lay on her Queen size bed (she had been sleeping on the sofa ever since you moved in) nights after nights, contemplating. Thinking over what it meant to her. You thought if thing switched, you wouldn’t be doing anything she was doing.

Oh. You suddenly realized. Yep. You would not. Because you were Natasha Romanov. You were the Black Widow. You couldn’t.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Annnnnnnnd here we go

It was a weird turning point.

She grabbed the key of her Audi B180 to go to the supermarket as usual. She smiled at you, telling you she would lock the door so you wouldn’t go out and disappear in the traffic of New York as usual. She exhorted you to be carful and not to knock over anything as usual. She was not worried about damage of her properties, you knew, but about you getting hurt, though she had basically cleared away any decoration high above.

You sneaked into her study for the first time. You had never been in the mood to read a book. You didn’t know why you did this.

Until you saw a book. And you knew.

She came back with two paper bags and found you on the couch, reading.

You raised the book in your hand.

“To Kill A Mockingbird.” You said your first sentence since your homecoming. Your voice sounded hoarse and low for it hadn’t been used for a long time. If it was your voice all along, however, you had no way to know, “Is that you, Barbara Morse? A Mockingbird, singing every day, not committing any crime?”

She froze. The paper bags slipped through her fingers.

“Natasha…” No, this was not her voice. She called you Natasha, yes, but never under this much pressure as if you walked into some of her ulterior secret.

“I just remembered a little.” you stared at her. “I remembered you being Mockingbird. Just now, but I remembered.”

She visibly relaxed. “How much do you remember?”

You bit your lower lip, shaking your head.

She didn’t push. She just picked up the bag and went into the kitchen to make you borscht.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A transition of sorts. And then I was stuck in the process of translation. It's harde than it look, damn it. I'll try and fix it as fast as I can.

From then, the air changed slightly. You became more talkative, from a few word (“No thanks.”) to a complete sentence (“I promise I won’t come in and mess things up again when you cook!”). You would sometimes complain about her dishes being too salty. You would curl up in the corner of the couch watching tv, debunking about the soap opera while she was reading some science magazine. You would describe a book you found interesting from her bookshelf like some curious kid even when you knew she must have read it several times.

Sometimes you doubted that whether it was because she had given you her chatterbox when you lived with her under the same roof for too long.

No, it couldn’t be like this. This was so not Natasha Romanov.

But you couldn’t help it.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Shit, I'm dealing with a ghost."

You hadn’t told her, but she was an elite spy. She would discover anyway. Or maybe she already had. She just hadn’t told you.  
  
You had been searching through her apartment.  
  
Ever since you read about Mockingbird and remembered her codename, you awoken to the reason (or maybe you learnt that part before as well?): for somebody who lost her memory, anything familiar — people, items, events, places — could all raise the possibility to trigger some related memory pieces.  
  
You hadn’t told her. You hadn’t told her why you wondered so badly about who she was.  
  
Because you changed.  
  
You could deny it all you want, but deep down, you were well aware you couldn’t deny yourself. You became more… humane then you were when you first went back states. Yes. You were clearly aware how big the progress was to get you to talk, and the reason it happened was all because of her. With every day you spent in her apartment this sense of guilt and annoyance raised a bit. You wanted to know who she was eagerly. Why would she be willing to take care of a woman who was almost wandering around the brink of a sociopath.   
  
Scavenge Hunt didn’t went well at all. Her frequency of absence  was getting lower — maybe even she realized the more you recovered yourself the more likely you would sneak out. When she left, the door was locked from the outside. FYI: the Mockingbird’s nest = impenetrable. She lived in a penthouse and with all your gadgets confiscated (you wouldn’t believe your body now anyway), making going through the window apparently an impossible choice.  
  
The only thing you could do was to scramble her apartment looking for any evidence that would point out who she was and clear up any trace left in the process. You highly doubted its necessity though. She would find out. She just wouldn’t tell you.  
  
You skimmed almost every book on her bookshelves (mostly science magazines and sci-fis) and put them back scrupulously. You checked her notebook, staring at her handwriting varying from illegible to unbearably neat, and couldn’t help but smiling at her interesting typesetting that combined Russian food cookbook and scrambled chemical formulas. You pried at every edge of the drawer hoping to find any hidden boxes.  
  
You held back the impulse to rip open her chair cushions for things inside, if there were any. Of course you could pretend you did it unintentionally like the last time you broke her cookie jar, but you suspected she was better than that now that she knew you were recovering.  
  
The result was surprising and not surprising at all. You didn’t find any evidence that might indicate who she was. You knew her name (a voice inside you told you she was telling the truth), but that was all. You knew her name. You knew she worked for SHIELD like you did. You were slowing learning what kind of person she was. But you knew none of the rest of it.  
  
She was a ghost.  
  
Just like you.  
  
You felt a sudden surge of uneasy panic. You were afraid you would find out one day who she was, but you were not sure you’d like the answer.  
  
 _Who are you, Barbara Morse?_


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What the hell does "Morse" mean?

You were getting better visibly.  
  
It was a huge progress for you to hold knife and fork simultaneously without stabbing yourself, to say the least.  
  
Your pride, however, made you overestimate yourself as usual. Of course.  
  
She had basically replaced any glassware and porcelain, but nothing could replace mugs. You should have anticipated this before your hand twitched involuntarily, your knife knocking over the mug with a cute you on it (she insisted it was an inadvertent discovery, though you didn’t feel like there was any resemblance between you and this tiny redhead with black costume and tiny limbs) and smashed it into pieces, ruining the hot chocolate in it.  
  
She was already standing up while making sure you’re not hurt, her smile never left her, but you shot up to your feet almost instantly to block her. "I’ll take care of the mess I made."  
  
She blinked in surprise and replied curtly. "The broom is in the kitchen’s corner. The mop is on the balcony."  
  
You brought the mop and the trash can. You picked up the fragments with your hand and cleaned down the brown stain on the floor with the mop.  
  
When you returned to the dining table after putting away two items, you found her staring at your right hand. You could feel the slight sting on your right index finger, but you only realized your entire right hand was drenched in blood when you looked down. She stayed silence wisely without comment or making a fuss. You respected her for that.  
  
But the true reason you felt repellant was the anxious and concerned look on her face when she hurried across the room to fetch you the first aid kit.  
  
You pulled back your hand abruptly. "I’m fine. Thanks for worrying, Morse."  
  
You wiped your hand clumsily and put on a band-aid. She was staring with an odd look the whole time. It wasn’t lost after being rejected. No, that would be too obvious.  
  
It was an expression mixed with shock and anticipation. Like a deja vu.  
  
"Oh, so I’m 'Morse' now?" Her face was hard to read, but she spoke without sarcasm. She was just stating a fact.  
  
A shiver ran through your body.  
  
_("…Shut your beak, Morse…")_  
  
_("…I’ve told you he was at 7 o’clock, Morse! Do you really need to get hurt to learn about teamwork, jerk?…")_  
  
_("…That’s enough, Morse, I can take care of myself… It’s just a guard…")_  
  
_("…The source of the intel isn’t valid in the least bit, Morse! What have you been doing in the past fucking week?!…")_  
  
Hundreds of sentences flooded into your mind. Same voice. Different situations. Irritated or angry. But you did realize:  
  
She was your partner. Your teammate. At least used to be.  
  
Right? Because why would she do all of these if that was not the case?  
  
"Is this all about?" You replied dryly, "Keeping your partner from drowning in her own darkness, Morse?"  
  
You tried to address her in surname again. The syllable slipped out of your mouth more smoothly every minute.  
  
The corner of her lips pulled to reveal a unconvincing smile. "Maybe, Romanov." she shrugged, "But you still don't remember."


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You really wouldn't want to spar with Mockingbird, amnesia or not.
> 
> And why "Bobbi"? That seems like a dumb name.

You felt like you were closing in on a huge secret, but you were not sure if you would like the truth you discover.  
  
After being able to walk in a straight line without knocking over any objects, you began your physical recovery pattern.  
  
There was a rather spacious gym in her apartment with mats in the middle, punchbags and some equipments in the corner, and knives and metal sticks in various length on a shelf. Luxurious.  
  
Your physique was okay. More than okay, actually. You could run miles on the treadmill while breathing steadily. You lifted 200 pounds with little effort with her help. Right stretching helped you found your usual pliability.  
  
Until you set foot on the boxing ring.  
  
To be honest, you were amazed by your muscular memory. Despite occasional spasm, which happened rather rarely, you adjusted to her quickened attack quite smoothly. At least in blunt knife-fighting. You still couldn’t perform switching the blade to the other hand when the current one was restrained like she did or threw it out if necessary, (of course it didn’t mean you couldn’t before. You just needed more time. She emphasized this a lot) but you could make sure cold metal didn’t come in contact with your skin.  
  
Stick-fighting was an entire new matter. Her application in sticks, whatever the length were, was much more skilled than knives when she could use her knives as if they were the extension of her arms. And if you had to put it this way, she could turn sticks, much clumsier than knives, into the extension of her fingers. You were mostly blocking her attack when fighting in staffs and dodging the rest with the reflex you prided yourself on so much, making you look like a red squirrel on the run. She controlled her attack precisely within the range your ego could bear, didn’t offer the win on a plate or destroy you, but it didn’t stop her from swirling her staff in her hands almost tauntingly (which she didn’t mean, you knew, but it was hard to watch anyway) waiting for you to recover from the last blow.  
  
"Fuck you, Morse." You spat blood when she accidentally applied too much force on your jaw.  
  
"Go on and give it a try, Romanov." She couldn’t help the smirk on her face you wished to punch away.  
  
Batons were only worse. She could press on her every move and got clear of your attack range when you did the same. The similar action of twisting her sticks in her palms in between breaks was definitely not helping. Her course of hitting had absolutely no pattern to follow, leaving trails of bruises on your porcelain skin.  
  
She showed no mercy beyond expectation, not even a little pity on her face. You had never witnessed any kind of seriousness and concentration on her face when she swung her sticks with professional analysis and precise lashes. She was a perfect couch and a pro.  
  
You knew your fighting skills matched hers, which only strengthened your fret and pressure. You didn’t enjoy being powerless. You wanted control. You wanted security  
  
You suggested hand-to-hand combat. She threw away her batons with an amused smile, ignoring the banging when they hit the floor, her eyes locked on you like a predator to a prey.  
  
You were mad at her for putting you through this. You were mad at yourself for being at a disadvantage. You did your best to maintain the stability yet ruthlessness in your blows, but she always found a way to resolve and dodge. She counteracted your attempt to overarm throw her. She back flipped and landed on both feet when you succeeded. She protected her face with forearms when you tried to hit it with elbows.  
  
You told yourself time and time again to keep it together, but your fighting patterns just kept getting messier, showing your rising temper in this goddamn cat-and-mouse game.  
  
"Enough, Morse!" You barked when you stumbled after throwing a punch with too much force but missed.  
  
"Not enough, Romanov." She replied in a steady voice, left hand enveloping your fist and tripped you with her leg, making you fall face up on the mat with a light push.  
  
You lay on the ground, popping up half your body with elbows and glaring at her.  
  
Her arctic blue eyes were cold and sharp like lancets. "Anger won’t solve any problem, Natasha, especially not life-and-death ones."  
  
Your rage dissipated immediately because you admitted reluctantly she was right. You let out a breath you didn’t even realize you were holding, frustrated. "I’m sorry... Bobbi."  
  
She froze, eyes widened as well as you did.  
  
You had no idea where this name came from. It was a nickname, clearly. But according to her name Barbara, you should have called her "Barbie". (silly, yes, which was way you would never call her that) At least you would have if you gave it a second thought.  
  
But you didn’t. So another name came from your lips.  
  
Then, almost unsurprisingly…  
  
 _("…Bobbi, the mission is over. What do you think of that new Italian around the corner? …")_  
  
 _("…No, no, and no. I would never choose green if I were you, Bobbi. It looks silly. Like I said. S-I-L-L-Y. …")_  
  
 _("…Jesus Christ, Bobbi, that’s my favorite vodka you stupid American! …")_  
  
 _("…No, Bobbi. Did you hear me? I’m not going to jump from here! …")_  
  
"Remembered anything, Tasha?" She asked you gently.  
  
Tasha.  
  
You showed off the bruise on your arm, almost pouting. ”That doesn’t look like something a friend would do, Bobbi."  
  
"No, it doesn’t." She agreed, smirking. “But you still don't remember."  
  
She reached a hand to pull you off the ground like you had done so many times before. "Again."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SPOILER ALERT!
> 
> I really enjoy "Person A yelling 'Fuck you' at Person B out of anger or frustration and Person B teasing about it only ending up exactly as Person A has unintentionally said".
> 
> (But since I already tagged "eventual smut" it can't be counted as an official spoiler... right?)


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trips to NYC. Fluffy. Really fluffy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I know, long hiatus, but I really got caught up in all kinds of crap... Anyway I'm actually completly free now until September, so if any of you want a prompt fic or something just let me know in the comment!

Well, you hadn’t reached the root of it all.

And this was the third month you spent in her place.

The past two months were many things. Bruises and smirks for half a month. Silence and chirping for nearly a month. Broken dishes and brooms for over a months. "Imprisonment" and smiles for two months.

…Okay, maybe not so much.

But things changed drastically as the season rolled into winter. Because she would take you out for walks.

She would hold your hand tightly like a mother afraid of losing her child, keeping you at the inner side of the sidewalk. You let her after a few attempts to break free. Your frustrated look would amuse her, making her laugh out loud like a child.

New York City was one giant concrete forest as usual, even more colorless and bleaker beneath layers of leaden clouds. People rushed by, hiding half their faces behind scarves and hats, expressionless, passing you by quickly and disappearing into featureless crowd. A gust of cold wind blew by and she sought out for your waist out of reflex, tugging at the trench coat she had wrapped around you and mumbled something like don't catch cold.

She just wandered around in the city with you. Sometimes you would said something, (she seldom spoke ever since you started talking) and she would listen to you intensely with occasional "Oh, yeah?" or "That sounds really interesting", but she never sounded perfunctory.

Most of the time you were silent, but it never felt awkward. You just enjoyed each other's company. You walked with her, side by side, shooting a glance at her once in a while, quick, afraid to be caught on sight. Of course she knew that, but she never pointed it out like so many other things. Only when it became really frequent did the corner of her lips turned up. She was about two inches taller than you, so you needed to look up a little to study her face, a perfect angle to portray her elegant silhouette. You studied her eyes the most: a shallow scar above the corner of her right eye, how her eyes reflected in different shades of light, her long lashes... You were attracted to those the most, especially when the sun came out. Her eyes blinked, blonde lashes fluttering in the breeze like butterflies.

Sometimes it rained, and she would just open an umbrella and continued roaming without disturbance until it became too heavy. That was when she dragged you in a coffee shop. She would get you a decaf and a mocha for her. You sat face to face with each other, hot drinks in palms. She would stir her cream with a spoon, staring at the table as if thinking, but her mind was completely elsewhere. Of course, she would immediately raise her head to look at you if you stared talking, sipping her coffee. Half of her face would be covered by the mug and her eyes were all you could see. Her focused gaze and casual tilts of her head always readily reminded you of an actual bird.

Pieces of snowflakes started flying when you were walking down the street the other time. You couldn't help but dragged her arm and pointed at the sky. You didn't say anything, but your eyes were filled with unconcealed joy. Snow was familiar to you, even when the dirty pavement that showed up as well not long after wasn't. She grinned and gave your nose a light scratch with the knuckle of her index finger. You pretended to be angry and went for her finger with teeth, only to bite the air. She laughed, her voice warm enough to heat up the icy air around you.

Suddenly, you stood still, staring at her, paralyzed. The snowflakes swirled and fell on her beret, on her blonde hair, on her navy blue overcoat. Her face was red from laughing, and she had never looked more alive.

You realized with shock that she was so. Fucking. Beautiful.

You wanted to kick yourself, hard, for taking you this long to figure out.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They had a big fight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yep, two in a day. I'm feeling really generous (what)

Since you were recovering, she slowly went back to her position in SHIELD as well. Of course, she had applied for indefinite postponement for any field work and took up the desk job: sorting out and summing up missions, especially those overboard. The job she hated the most.

She always took every data she could find back to her apartment with zero respect that since you were temporary resigned you had no clearance. She would even consulted you if she missed anything, or had you skim through it after she had finish, see if there was anything to be added or deleted.

She still hated this job, you could tell, but she did it anyway. With full heart. Just because any piece of seemingly insignificant information could become vital under certain circumstances, meaning many agents' lives depended on it.

She still had her misgivings. She told you, gentle but firm, to not go through any documents that were not handed to you by her. You understood. You stayed in the apartment when she was out, and you really leave out any manila folders with an eagle sigil on it.

Until you wandered around her study and noticed something special.

As a matter of fact, the folder was buried underneath a pile of _50 surviving tips in Madripoor_ along with a bunch of other things. But she must have left too hurriedly to be careful enough and stuffed back the note with your name on it.

It was just too tempting. You took out the folder and the note and opened it with shaking fingers. You couldn't comprehend what you saw, though.

It was a thick pile of personal files. You counted five people, all under witness protection. The files were detailed, from real identity to their fake ones they were using now, names, stories of life, records of entry and exit, current addresses. All except photos.

You were stupefied for a second but you didn't search any closer, putting the note and the folder back to exactly where they were.

A while from then, you realized that it was just the beginning.

She looked impulsive in front of you for the first time. She even drifted out while you were still talking. She cut her finger when cooking absent-mindedly. She started to go out early and come home late, locking you in again. Every time she came back, she just look more tired.

You brought up your doubt to test out her reaction during a dinner, but she tried to direct the conversation to another direction to avoid answering.

Anger rushed up your brain. "Don't lie to me, Morse!"

"I didn't!" She shouted back, "When the fuck did I ever lie to you, Romanov? You know nothing. You just curled up in your safe heaven while I was out there--"

"I was curling up in here? You _locked_ me here! You were out there doing what?" You growled to hide your hurt. She shouted at you. She had never been this emotional, never raised her voice. Never.

She clutched tightly to the edge of the table, refusing to answer.

"You know what? I don't feel so hungry anymore." You pushed away your meal, half of them untouched, and stood up abruptly. The chair hit the floor with a loud thump. You kicked it away and went straight for your bedroom, taking the door with you with a bang.

You regretted as soon as the door was close. You leant on the door for any movement outside. The sound of knife and fork clinging came back after a long time, the sound of cleaning the table following not long behind.

You lay on the spacious bed and stared at the ceiling.

The bedroom was quiet. _Her_ bedroom was quiet.

She never came in to apologize. You knew it wasn't because that wasn't who she was, but because she knew even if you regretted a million times, you would never accept her apology.

You tossed and turn in the bed, but you just had to turn your back away from the door when it was pushed open quietly, faking sound sleep with even breath.

Warm lips fell on your temple. You had to refrain yourself from shivering drastically. You two had never been this intimate in your memory.

This kiss was as tender and implicit as her mumble.

"I don't want to hurt you, Tasha."


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Something's not right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AND a third! Wow. I'm good.

She took you out for walks again.

This time you made it to the river. The water waved up listlessly below the bank, dormant as always in winter. The sun stayed behind the thickening clouds. Signs of anther wave of brewing snow.

The air felt rather embarrassing since your last fight. Neither of you tried to start a conversation, but she walked beside you, arm in arm, her hands in the overcoat pockets.

Several citizens were on the bank chatting or walking just like you. Guess everyone preferred staying indoor in this weather.

Until her vigilance caught your attention.

You felt her entire attention focused on one single person. You felt the muscle on the arm that was skin to skin with you tense. Hell, you felt her whole body tense like a cheetah ready to pounce on her already locked prey. You couldn't read her expression, but that was a new level of hatred.

A burst of riot confirmed your guess just when you were about to ask.

A black man about a hundred yards in from of you suddenly grabbed a mid-age woman and strangled her with his arm. People started to scream and run away in all direction when they saw him pull out a gun and held it against the woman's temple.

"How long are you gonna follow me, huh?" You heard him shout, forcibly dragging the woman to turn around with him, his eyes scanning the surrounding frenziedly.

You couldn't help your shivering when he turned to your direction.

There was a long ugly scar across his face. Although you weren't frightened by his dreadful look.

He was one of the five man that tortured you back in Tanzania.

He saw you before you could put pieces together. But strangely, he wasn't looking at you.

"You, that blonde bitch!" He spat, "You were the one that's been tagging me for over two weeks, right? I'm telling you--"

He was surprisingly fast, or maybe you were too slow. He pulled the gun away from the woman and pointed it at your direction--

You were thrown off the feet and fell face down behind a bench the next second, the sound of gunshots, a sound you hadn't heard it in a while now, broke up the frozen winter air. You heard more screaming and running, deafening gunshots, the chip of the bench flying, a grumble from her lying on top of you.

But she kept pressing down your head to keep you from getting up.

You struggled. You struggled like crazy. You wanted to help. You needed to help--

"Don't move, Tasha--" Her voice sounded a little labored and rushed.

"I'm going to kill him! He was in Tanza--"

With another wave of screaming and the sound of spray caused by heavy objected being thrown into the water, you felt the pressure on top of you lessened. You forced yourself to get up as soon as possible, pulling away strays of red hair that blocked your vision, desperately wanting to know what on earth happened--

You saw her run toward the bank, her blonde hair burning in the grayish view around her. Then you saw her stripping away her coat and sweater and stretched out a little.

You screamed at her, telling her don't do it, but you saw the man was running away. Your heart was in violent struggle. After a short hesitation, you ran toward the fleeing man.

She probably shouted a "don't" at you when you ran past her. You didn't listen to her. You kept running and heard a second spray, knowing she didn't listen either.

The man created a perfect diversion by pulling his hostage into the water, buying him more time. However, he wasn't fast enough for a chaser who was stronger than average people.

You kicked him hard on his right knee. He gave a blood-curdling scream and fell face down.

You felt the fury burning in every vessel of your body. You wanted to grab him by his hair and slam his head against the trunk. You wanted to break every rib of his. You wanted to everything he had done to you...

But you just knocked him over with a vicious blow at the back of his neck and entrusted the gathering crowd to keep an eye on him. You had more important thing to do.

She was good at swimming. You remembered her telling you she was a member of SHIELD's swimming team. But it was wintertime. Judging by the clouds, the temperature would only grow lower. It was unfamiliar waters. Nobody knew what was down there.

She had already pushed the woman ashore when you ran to the bank, who was pulled up by others. You was just about to relax when you found out with fear that she didn't follow.

She struggled to keep her head above water, but you could tell she was losing her strength. You started to strip, only to hear her calling out to you. "Don't... You can't swim..."

You weren't sure if she was telling the truth. You couldn't prove it right away either. You could only plead the crowd. "Can anyone lend a hand, please?"

A man next to the rescued woman raised his head. From the look of worry in his eyes, he was the woman's husband. He took of his coat and jumped into the river without hesitation by the time she was submerged in the water.

It didn't take him long to bring her back on his shoulder and lay her on the ground. You didn't have the time to thank her because you notice with fright that her chest stopped heaving. You moistened a shaking finger with droplets on her skin and approached her nostril. No coolness.

"The ambulance and NYPD are on the way." The man told you, but you weren't listening.

You loosened her belt and checked her mouth for foreign matters before started CPR. Her skin was drenched in cold water for too long to stay in her usual reassuring warmth, but her lips felt soft as always. You forced yourself to focus on the counting, but you could't help yourself: what if--

Thankfully, her coughing cut off your imagination, water sprayed on your face, but that was the least of your concern. She kept coughing and sat up, frowning. "Eh... How long was I out? I'm certain less then five minutes, because--"

And you cut her off with a tight hug. Maybe a little too tight, you though, because she let out a light yelp. But you held on.

"Fuck you, Bobbi." You wouldn't let go. You doubted it wasn't real. You doubted she would vanished as soon as you let go.

"Alright, alright, I love you too." She patted you on your back, resigned, and finally shouted when you still refused to move. "I'm fucking alright!"

You let go unwillingly. She stood up slowly and rub her eyes, finally seeing a circle of rather embarrassed people. She just shrugged and searched for the pocket of her coat before pulling out her badge. "Well... SHIELD?"

Many people relaxed visibly.

"That man can't hurt anyone else, ma'am."The man from before returned, still dripping, "Thank you for saving my wife."

"This is what we do." She shrugged again, "SHIELD, you know."

He whispered to you when she went to check that man down. "Is everyone in SHIELD like her?"

You found yourself smiling. "No. She's an exception."

She negotiated with the arrived police so that the personnel from SHIELD took him away. You weren't quite okay with this result, but you didn't have the right to protest.

You were just surprised that you didn't realize how much she meant to you until now.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things escalated really fast.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was legitimately my favorite part of this work. I love it even more than the smut part. (The next part actually! Yay!) I hope you can see why.

"You're hurt." You slammed the door behind you, its suspicious banging sound not corresponding with its seemingly innocent wooden door look. It wasn't meant as a question.  
  
"Nothing permanent." She sneezed before she walked to the heater and turned it up, "I heal fast, if you remember correctly."  
  
"Fuck you and all your 'if you remember' bullshit!" You snapped at her, "Was this some kind of dirty tricks to get me feel guilty? Why do you always act as if it was all my fault--"  
  
You really shouldn't have, a voice murmured in your head as you huffed and puffed. You were pretty sure she was shot. She almost died an hour ago. You should have been more worried.  
  
Oh, right. You were worried. This was how you coped with it--you snapped.  
  
But you wasn't expecting a storm as wild and fierce as yours.  
  
"This is not your fucking fault!" She hurried to her study and threw a fetched file on your face. You caught it out of reflex and found it surprisingly familiar.  
  
"Is this--"  
  
"Yes, so-called 'witness protection' was actually those douchebags." Her voice was shaking. Her voice never shook. Even during last time when you had a fight, her voice remained calm throughout anger, "They sold out a group of arm dealers for a chance to trade with FBI. I've been follow them for a while now, trying to find tells in their fake identities. But to be honest, what happened today was purely coincidence."  
  
Now you _really_ felt a rush of guilt filled your heart. You thought of many things at that moment. Her exhaustion of chasing down men who had hurt you. The bullet she took for you. Then it became everything she had done fo you in the past three months and what she had got out of it.  
  
 _(Absolutely nothing, it would seem.)_  
  
But all you said was, "go sit on the couch. I'll find you the first aid kit."  
  
  
  
She took off the coat you wrapped around her and her own and sat at the edge of the couch, barely self-conscious of herself, topless (you took of her sport bra afraid that she would catch a cold). The wound wasn't that bad. A bullet to the upper left arm, clear in-and-out, and she didn't lie about her healing fast. She moved her legs onto the sofa, upper body leaning against the armrest. You sat down next to her and patched her up with sutures and gauze.  
  
You felt her gaze locked on you the whole time with no avoidance. You pressed hard on the wound for the last time, earning yourself a sharp intake of breath, and tilting your head to look at her.   
  
Only then did you realize how horribly close you two were. You could see every little droplet on her fine facial hair, every tiny line on her colorless lips, every barely noticed shiver accompanied by every blink.  
  
And her lake blue eyes. Oh God, her eyes. So blue. So deep. As if they could just suck you up into a bottomless pit and drown you forever in it.  
  
 _(Not that you would hate that, though.)_  
  
You did the only thing you could.  
  
You turned, one hand holding her jaw closely and tightly and kissed her.  
  
Without desperation at almost loss of life, her lips tasted as warm and familiar and comforting as you remembered.  
  
Wait.  
  
 _As you remembered..._  
  
Not some sentences. Not a few scenarios. Memories after memories flooded your brain in one brief second like water breaking free of a dam, and every one of them was screaming to be put back in place. You were drowning in the ocean of memory, struggling to float back up.  
  
Magnificent scenes across the world came in first. Pink cherry blossom outside Tokyo in warm March sunshine. Obscure outline of London in dull rainy days on the London Eye. Stone-paved, crowded market of Frankfurt. Biting wind on an unnamed Swiss snow-caped mountain. Vast expanse of stars upon boundless sand.  
  
 _The starry sky in Sahara desert she and her lover saw long time ago..._  
  
These words transformed into a gust of thick fog and built up the other person in these scenes. The blonde woman who was always laughing. The woman who would hold up your hand and kiss your fingers, whispering "I love you" in your ear. The woman who would always hold you close proudly and introduce you to other as "This is my lover".  
  
Not "girlfriend". "Lover". You remembered her obsession about it.  
  
And you remembered every minute with her every day. Every chore she had done. You knew it was in the past because there was a smiling you next to her. You wrapped your arms around her waist when she was cooking. You stood on your tiptoe and kissed her face when she was watering the plants. You leant your head on her shoulder when she was making shopping lists.  
  
 _Familiar things triggered memories._  
  
 _How familiar were your kisses with her?_  
  
You let go of her and leant back, pure shock on your face.  
  
"I remembered." a sheer of thin fog fell over your eyes.  
  
She stared at you calmly. Almost too calm. "How much?"  
  
"Everything." You seemed to summon all your strength, but all that came out was this word.  
  
"Oh, yeah?" Her reply was strangely indifferent, the hatred that surfaced in her eyes induced two separate fire burning in you.  
  
You moved to climb on the couch all of a sudden and straddled her waist, holding up her face to kiss her roughly again.  
  
She wriggled desperately underneath you like an untamed horse trying its damnedest to throw its rider off, but every movement of resistance only added fuel to the fire of fury _and_ fire of desire.  
  
Your tongue pried open her teeth and entered the territory that belonged to you. It wrestled with another of its kind in there, invading every tender and sensitive part of it.  
  
You found that you weren't trying to remember. You actually remembered everything. You had memorized it like the back of your hand. You remembered because you always did.  
  
You let go of her after what felt like a century.  
  
The anger was still in those blue eyes, but now it was tinted with something else. She had slid down and lay on the couch as if her strength was lost to her all of the sudden, face flushed, pupils dilated. You could almost see yourself in them, how ferocious you were and how she seemed so fragile.  
  
You leaned in again to bite her throat, the pulse point struggling for life beneath your teeth. Your hands, _on the other hand,_ began to wander around her body rudely, stopping for more ministration on every sensitive area you remembered.  
  
You remembered touching the side of her neck made her suck in a breath. You remembered the skin below her left breast was about making her fingertips twitched. You remembered the right side of the waist, near her hip bone, was the on switch for biting her lips and curling up her legs.  
  
...You did remembered it all.  
  
You replaced your hands with lips to explore her still chilly skin, but you wouldn't be gentle about it. You'd bite and lick and suck, leaving marks of varied shades, which you knew would all turned purple tomorrow.  
  
A hand fell gently on the back of your head when you reached the abdomen.  
  
You looked up to look her in the watery eyes.  
  
"Nat." She said.  
  
You knew what it meant. In Russian, the nickname for Natalia could be Natasha or Natshka, or just Tasha for that matter, but it wouldn't easily be Nat. It was a name reserved for parents and partner.  
  
"Yes?" You face brushed against her abs.  
  
"Who am I?" She asked.  
  
You smiled rarely. "Bobbi Morse."  
  
"Who am I?" She didn't give up.  
  
"Agent 19." This was her codename in SHIELD.  
  
"Who am I?"  
  
You gave her belly bottom a light lick. "My lover."  
  
Her breath hitched for a second, but she insisted. "Who am I?"  
  
"My little bird."  
  
The name slipped out your mouth naturely. Neither of you showed any surprise.  
  
She smiled, grabbing your hand and placed it on her belt. "Prove it to me."


End file.
